


i can't reach it

by notquiteaghost



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Grantaire's opinion of himself is worse than Enjolras' opinion of the government, Self-Harm, This is not Happy, there is no recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 20:28:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notquiteaghost/pseuds/notquiteaghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing about self-harm is people's willful ignorance.</p><p>They don't want you to be doing it, so you can't possibly be doing it. You're not sad enough, you're not dramatic enough, you're not an attention-seeker, you're not a thirteen-year-old girl. You laugh on cue and you wear t-shirts when the weather's nice and you're just not the type, you would never, of course you wouldn't. </p><p>Honestly. Grantaire might as well let everyone else make his excuses for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i can't reach it

**Author's Note:**

> hello and welcome to another episode of 'avery tortures zir favourite characters as a way of dealing with zir own issues'.
> 
> this is TW: self-harm x100. i am not kidding. proceed with caution, and please be safe. title is from "the word 'happiness' is too far away; i can't reach it" from (i think?) shoujo cosette.

The thing about self-harm is people's willful ignorance.

They don't want you to be doing it, so you can't possibly be doing it. You're not sad enough, you're not dramatic enough, you're not an attention-seeker, you're not a thirteen-year-old girl. You laugh on cue and you wear t-shirts when the weather's nice and you're just not the type, you would never, of course you wouldn't. 

Honestly. Grantaire might as well let everyone else make his excuses for him. 

The other thing about self-harm is how addicting it is. No one ever talks about that part, funnily enough. 

People talk about scars, about relapses, about triggers. But it's always got a cause, an underlying problem, an independent source. 

No one ever mentions the times you catch yourself thinking about cutting for the sake of it, for a way to pass the time, for something to do. Thinking about it like it's a valid past time, a hobby, something you do to wile away the evenings. No one ever mentions the cravings, the hours you spend thinking about sharp edges and deep lines and the burn of it, God, the things you'd for the burn of it. 

Grantaire hears people talk about self-harm as a symptom of depression almost as often as he hears people talk about alcoholism as a symptom of depression. God forbid someone admit that they're problems all on their own. God forbid someone admit there's a problem they can't fix with a couple of anti-depressants and a weekly therapy session.

Addiction and other people's willful ignorance is never the best combination. Add it together and you get years of unnoticed, unchecked, and untreated self-destruction. You fall down the rabbit hole, down and down and down, until you forget what it's like outside Wonderland and you get so used to the bizarre and they all know you so well here, so why should you leave?

There is an elastic band around Grantaire's wrist and three deep gashes in his stomach and any minute now, the demons in his head are going to get the upper hand and he's going to do something he'll regret in the morning. 

He's in the Musain, listening to Enjolras talk. His demons have never had the best sense of timing. 

'There's a razor in your pocket,' Demon #1 says, louder than everything else, 'You can make some excuse about a headache, slip off home, there's still that patch on your thigh you haven't even touched.'

'Imagine it,' Demon #2 chimes in, 'Go on, imagine how good it'd feel. You want it, you know you do. You _need_ it.'

"--R?" Someone who doesn't exist solely in Grantaire's head is shaking his shoulder. "Grantaire? Are you okay?"

Grantaire blinks back to himself with a jolt. "Um. What?"

"Are you okay?" Courfeyrac repeats, frowning at him. "We've been calling your name for ages. Do you feel sick?"

"No, no, I'm fine." Grantaire says, smiling weakly. "Just got lost in my own head, that's all. Back now. Did you want something?"

"The flyer designs?" Enjolras asks. He looks concerned, too. Everyone looks concerned. Everyone apart from Joly, who looks worryingly knowing. 

"Three done, one more to go." Grantaire says, not meeting Joly's eye. "Should have them ready for critique by next week. Want me to bring them to the meeting?"

Enjolras nods. "That sounds best. Now, Courfeyrac, about that letter--"

Grantaire tunes him out again. Tunes it all out, letting their conversations wash over him like static, just enough to keep the demons quiet. 

His peaceful trance lasts for the final half hour of the meeting. He's jolted out of it when people start standing up, scraping chairs, calling across the room, and he goes to leave too, eager to get back to his flat (and his waiting razors), but he's accosted by Joly. 

Dammit. 

"Are you alright?" Joly says, quiet. "Honestly. You can tell me."

Joly's doing a med degree. Everyone thinks this is hilarious, because Joly's a hypochondriac. What most people don't know, however, is that Joly wants to go into mental health. He deals with his own anxiety incredibly well, so Grantaire's glad he's going to share that talent (and that he isn't going to attempt to work on a ward in a hospital, because there's no way in Hell that would end well). 

That doesn't mean Grantaire needs his help, though. 

"I'm fine." Grantaire assures him, as sincere as he can make it. 

"Bullshit." Joly fires back, brow furrowing slightly. "Do you think I'm obtuse, R? Something's up. Please tell me what it is, so I can help?"

Grantaire sighs. He casts a quick glance about the room, but it's now empty for everyone else besides Enjolras, and it's not like Enjolras' opinion of him can get any lower, so he says, "I am maybe possibly dealing with long-standing addiction. I have a therapist and everything."

He does. Her name's Marie, and she despairs of him. 

"Just the drinking?" Joly asks, quiet and soft and so kind. Grantaire doesn't deserve this much kindness. Grantaire doesn't deserve his friends. Grantaire doesn't deserve much of anything, really, except-- Well. Except the obvious. "Or something else? You don't have to tell me, of course you don't, but I'd like to know what warning signs I should watch out for."

"Drinking, and, um." Grantaire hesitates. He can't say it. It's been six years, and he still can't fucking say it. He's fucking pathetic. Swallowing, he pulls up his shirt and lets Joly see his mess of a stomach instead of attempting any words. Joly, surprise surprise, sucks in a gasp. 

Grantaire drops his shirt, drops his hands to his sides, clenches his fists. 

"God, R." Joly breathes. He sounds... sad, almost. Which is odd. Most people sound disappointed. Or disgusted. If Grantaire was Joly, he'd definitely sound disgusted. "You ever need anything, you call me, okay? No matter what."

Grantaire nods, still wordless. Joly wavers, biting at his lip, then pulls Grantaire in for a quick and very loose hug. 

When they pull apart, they exchange tight smiles, and then Joly is walking over to Enjolras and Grantaire is walking out the door, pace faster than normal, eager to be home. He snaps the elastic band against his wrist in time with the rhythm of his steps, and when he finally shuts the door to his flat behind him, his skin is glowing red, and he walks right into his bedroom without stopping and there are his razors and the weight of one in his hand shouldn't be this comforting and the burn of one across his skin shouldn't this comforting but _Christ_. 

He's loathe to admit it, but this is the calmest he's felt in weeks.

**Author's Note:**

> i am [here](http://monsterau.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


End file.
